THE FIRST time I came back was only a couple of months after I left.A friend of mine is directing a play for the university theatre company, an adaptation of Mary Shelley’s “Frankenstein”.

I wander out of Sheffield station, up towards the city centre, as I had done a hundred times before.

It wasn’t long after noon. I’ve nowhere to be until that evening, and although I’d arranged to meet some friends for drinks, I’d taken an early train so I could visit the old stomping ground.

After a three and a half hour train journey, I’m in dire need of a caffeine fix. No fear, I thought, as I pointed my feet onto the path that would eventually lead me to my usual coffee spot.

I pause and read the poem on the side of the Hallam university building, as I always do when coming into the city.

What if? What if? What if?

Onwards, wandering through labyrinths of air, past the fountains outside City Hall, onto the trendy bustle of Division Street, and towards my preferred place to for an overpriced sugary caffeine hit.

​​ Dead halt.

Closed. Not just closed but gone. Windows covered in that semi-translucent white stuff that announces to the world that the innards of a building are undergoing some form of cosmetic surgery.

Well, I thought, that’s inconvenient but no bother. Somewhat furrowed in the brow, with my kilter decidedly off, I wandered on. I’d been looking forward to entering that particular memory den, not for the sub-par coffee, but for the sense of nostalgia. To experience once again stepping out of the newsroom around eleven, with a pretty redhead, and wandering in the sunshine towards the goal of a chai tea latte and a skinny stem-ginger muffin.

Oh well. No problems. Onwards.

Broomhill, that’s the one. My friends live in that general area, I’m to meet them later, I’ll just head up there and put up in that café on the corner, the one that does the nice smoothies, where I went on the day my parents first dropped me off in Endcliffe village.

Further up and further in, following on the old familiar uphill route to a place I knew like the back of my hand. A part of the city which was once ironically described by a lecturer as “full of kebabs and chlamydia”. There’s only so much you can write about those, he said.

It’s warm, but there’s a pleasing breeze blowing down into the city, as I trace my way up through the beating heart of the university concourse, enjoying the sight of people threading hither and thither, avoiding leaflets where they can.

On one side, the imposing edifice of the academic institution, on the other, the glittering façade of the students’ union. Time and memories burnt away in both these places, too many to recall at once, so I pause, and listen. Close my eyes and let the cacophony seep into me.

Not a recognisable face around me. I walk on. Past the ivy covered red bricks, and up, up, up to the fresher Mecca.

One foot after the other, and I’m there. And it’s shut. Another memory den closed off. Another place that I thought my own, shut against me.

It’s no huge thing, I’ll just go somewhere else. But as I stand outside the darkened café, the truth pokes it’s noggin out of the dank recesses of my anti-depressant addled mind. I have nowhere to go.

In this city, which I fondly regard as home, I have no home. No place. No refuge. Nowhere to be. Nowhere to go.

I come to realise, with the awful tingly, creeping cold up the spine of a dawning anxious dread, that I’m not visiting at all.

I’m haunting.

I’ve only been gone a couple of months, and yet already the city has morphed away from what was mine into someone else’s.

Most of my friends have already left. The purpose I had in coming here, attaining a shiny piece of paper that says I’m not shite, has been fulfilled.I’m literally only here on a self-indulgent nostalgia wank.

I need a pint.

Sitting at the non-existent head of a round table, alone save the company of a dimpled, handled glass of beer and the bored looking hipster washing glasses the only other soul in the pub. I fall into thought.

I don’t live here. I don’t work here. I am, though I don’t like admitting it, unlikely to return any time soon.

It’s not home anymore.

Admitting that to myself, knowing it’s a sensible admission, doesn’t make it any easier.

The next day I’m heading back to the North-West, back to the town I swore I’d never return to once I’d managed to get out. And to make matters worse, this is a really disappointing pint.

Should have gone to Fagan’s.

Eventually my friends turned up at the pub after they’d finished in their various lectures or jobs. We had a laugh. We went to see the play. It was decent.

I left the city the next day, feeling gradually more upset the closer the station I got. Over the next few years I occasionally came back to the city, but rarely.

It took me until the summer of 2017 to finally up-sticks, sack off the north west, and come home.

Yeah, things and places and people have changed, but so have I.It’s a different city, in a different time, for a different man. But those aren’t bad things.

And, thankfully, as one little piece of solace, just as it hasn’t since about 1950, Fagan’s hasn’t changed.

“Do you remember the first time?

I can’t remember a worse time.

But you know that we’ve changed so much since then,Oh yeah,We’ve grown.”

D Lake

]]>https://minalloywritersclub.com/2018/08/17/growing-pains/feed/0HILL FIREhttps://minalloywritersclub.com/2018/08/17/hill-fire/
https://minalloywritersclub.com/2018/08/17/hill-fire/#respondFri, 17 Aug 2018 17:34:40 +0000https://minalloywritersclub.com/?p=149FIRE BROKE out on Helsby Hill, Cheshire, on Friday 29 June 2018. Social media carried rumours and speculation about the fire and how it started. The fire service said the blaze began by accident. The following is an imagined version of events.

THE FIRE happened during one of those rare periods when the sun beat down on England, hard and hot. For several days it had been stiflingly warm, and it was all anyone could talk about. Sure, on the face of it everyone was loving this glorious weather. But simmering beneath the smiles and glances towards the cloudless sky, there was a seething resentment, an underlying exasperation and a yearning for weather just cool enough to put on a cardigan or a pair of socks. Tempers flare in hot weather.

Sarah had seen the evidence on her way home from school that evening; a young couple arguing on the train station platform. Swear words thrown with a total disregard for bystanders who might overhear. Funny how the anger of strangers seems so futile when you’re not personally involved, she thought.

​​ Besides the argument, the rest of her journey home was uneventful. People were already sitting at the benches outside the local pub, some leaning together, laughing and chatting animatedly, others lounging back, hands behind heads, elbows pointy, pint glasses empty. A man a few hundred yards beyond the pub sat on a bench smoking a cigarette. Sarah felt him watching her, noticed from the corner of her eye as his gaze followed her walking past the bench. Feeling suddenly self-conscious, she quickened her pace, relieved when she turned the corner to her street and walked down the alleyway between her house and the neighbour’s. Once inside, she dropped her school bag on the table in the kitchen and ran upstairs to her bedroom, her hands touching the stairs as she went, “like a gazelle,” her dad always said. She changed from her school uniform into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt with a crossbow motif from the Hunger Games: Catching Fire.It was Friday afternoon, not yet 4pm. Her parents wouldn’t be home for at least another two hours. She went back downstairs, slumped down onto the sofa and reached for the TV remote. Before she had even pushed a button, she had an odd feeling that something wasn’t right. When the TV would not turn on, she realised why: there was no red light to show it was on standby.Sarah stood up and walked over to the light switch, and when the light did not come on, she took her phone out of her pocket. There were 11 new notifications on her Facebook app, all of them from people posting on the town’s Facebook group about a power cut. The most recent was someone complaining about the number of people not bothering to read previous posts, and clogging their newsfeed with the same news from different people. Someone had posted a screenshot of a statement from a power company saying that they hoped the power would be back on by 7pm that evening. Sarah sighed, looked out of the window at the street outside, and decided impulsively to go out while the sun was still bright. She grabbed her canvas backpack from the hallway and packed an apple and a packet of crisps. Her house key was on the kitchen table by her school bag. Next to it was a small scented candle. One had been on every surface in the house since a recent trip to IKEA. Without thinking, Sarah opened a drawer in the kitchen, took out a lighter, and put it in her pocket.

She had walked a few hundred yards up the street when a cyclist wearing a baseball cap backwards sped past her, legs pumping on the pedals, bum high off the seat. Seconds later there was the sound of a revving engine, and before Sarah could turn round to see, a van went past her and onto the pavement just ahead, where it crashed into a low brick wall before accelerating away. The cyclist, who had been inches from the wall when the van crashed, wobbled a little as he turned round and looked straight at Sarah. What was that expression? Fear? Confusion? Before she could say anything, he peddled away and turned onto a different street.“Did you see that?” said a man getting out of a car from the other side of the road.

“Yeah,” replied Sarah. She couldn’t think of anything else to say.“What did it look like to you?” asked the man. Sarah noticed he was wearing a blazer and trousers but no shirt. The fuzzy hair which covered the man’s chest was visible between the lapels of his jacket. She tried not to look surprised at his unusual outfit.

“Erm, the van driver mustn’t’ve seen the bike. I don’t know why he went on the pavement.”

“Well to me, it looked like a fucking murder attempt,” said the shirtless man, eyes wide. “It was either gypsies or bag’eads. But you didn’t see me and I didn’t say nuthin’.” He hurriedly got back into his car and drove off in the opposite direction to the van and cyclist.

Sarah looked all around her but couldn’t see any other people. There was a jaggedy, diagonal gap where the wall had been smashed through, a pile of bricks and rubble on the other side. It was eerily quiet on the street, as though the crash hadn’t happened at all. Sarah ran, feeling her pulse quicken as adrenaline kicked in, her sandals slapping heavily on the pavement, until she reached the public footpath between the hedges of gardens which backed onto the hill.

The path was in shadow as the hedges had overgrown, and her eyes adjusted slowly to the sudden lack of bright sunshine. She could feel leaves brushing against her ankles, fresh cobwebs landing lightly on her face and arms as she rushed up the incline towards the woodland. Four sandstone steps at the end of the hedgerow passageway opened onto a woodland path, where the ground was dappled in sunlight which shone through the trees above.

Sarah took a deep breath and walked quickly along the dusty path. She could hear birds chirping as she steadily made her way through the trees to the metal steps known as the Baker’s Dozen. Each step was slightly too close to the next to be comfortable to walk up normally, so Sarah took them two at a time, stretching her legs and enjoying the burst of energy needed to make it to the top. Once there, she walked along the ridge that led to the very top of the hill, looking past the trees to the houses and buildings of her hometown below, the cars and lorries moving on the motorway beyond. Pine cones, twigs and dried leaves littered the path, and Sarah crouched down to pick some up, collecting a few handfuls into her bag as she walked.Pelmsbrook Hill is sandstone and the top is flat, layered stone which forms a platform with a rocky cliff on one side. A short but steep walk from the town below makes it easily accessible and a popular hangout in the summer for local young people. Sarah walked along the summit, stopping to read some of the graffiti that had been carved into the rock over the years. “Alex 4 Suzie 4eva”, “Big up the Pelmsbrook mafia”, “Jody is a dick” and a particularly dubious one, “I woz here in 1947”.

When she reached the cliff, Sarah climbed down onto a lower level of rock, careful not to misplace her footing even though the actual drop was several metres away. She took out the dry leaves and twigs from her bag and placed them in a little pile on the ground, before taking the lighter out of her pocket.

The dried leaves caught flame quickly, but they also burnt too quickly; they didn’t stay lit for long enough to create the little campfire that Sarah was aiming for. The twigs were more difficult to light, but after several attempts to light one, it caught flame for long enough for Sarah to place it among the pile. The small flames curled and licked the pine cones, and gradually they spread until the whole little pile was ablaze. Satisfied, Sarah took out her phone to photograph her creation – because if it didn’t happen on Facebook, did it even happen at all? Before she uploaded her pictures, she remembered something she wanted to look up. She typed, “What is a baghead” into Google and the results popped up instantly: something to do with drugs. She read a few of the lines about heroin with interest – she had heard of the drug, of course, but didn’t particularly know anything about it – before putting her phone down to take another look at her fire.

With a jolt, she saw that the flames had spread and were beginning to burn a gorse bush at the edge of the stone platform, where there was dried grass and more gorse. She stood, panicked by the sudden and surprisingly quick spread of her campfire. Picking up her bag, Sarah jumped back up to the main summit of the hill and took a few steps away from where she had been. She looked back at the small but growing fire, then at the town below and the power station by the estuary on the other side of the motorway. This isn’t really happening, she thought. I didn’t just bring a lighter up the hill and start a fire.

But she did. And it was. The fire was growing right before her eyes now, gorse bushes catching flame one after the other and smoke starting to bellow into the early evening air with alarming speed. Sarah turned away from the fire and began to run back along the path she had walked up, not daring to stop, not wanting to look at the fire which was surely now engulfing the whole hilltop. She raced down the metal steps, grabbing the metal handrail as she jumped and realising that it – like the whole hill – was scorching after days of hot weather.

She ran along the path, feeling a breeze on her face from the speed, checking the ground in front of her for roots and uneven ground. Down the path between the hedges, green leaves a blur past her vision, and onto the road with the smashed-in wall from the accident before. She slowed her pace to a brisk walk, nervous of drivers seeing her fleeing the scene of the fire. The shrill sound of “Greenfingers” – that inimitable tune which seems to be the hallmark of all ice cream vans – made her jump, but it was several streets away. Two cars drove past but the drivers didn’t even glance at Sarah. As she reached her front door, she heard the start of a siren, coming from the direction of the main road. Shit, she thought.

Photograph: Deeside.com

Jennie McShane

]]>https://minalloywritersclub.com/2018/08/17/hill-fire/feed/0ATYPICALhttps://minalloywritersclub.com/2018/08/17/atypical/
https://minalloywritersclub.com/2018/08/17/atypical/#respondFri, 17 Aug 2018 17:32:57 +0000https://minalloywritersclub.com/?p=146I’M SITTING opposite my dad in a shitty two-for-one family pub. “It’s OK if you need to starve yourself on a Wednesday and binge on a Sunday,” he says, “lots of people do that. You just don’t want to get any bigger, do you?”I’ve just told him all about my eating disorder. How I starved myself for years. How I’d chastise myself terribly for eating two apples in one day. How I would weigh myself before every meal, and several times in between – asking the scale how much I was allowed to eat, if anything at all.

I told him that for a year, I saw a specialist nurse every week at an outpatient eating disorder clinic. She’d weigh me and read through my food diary – tell me to eat more. Her sons liked grated cheese in tomato soup – maybe I could try that.

But now I’m too fat again. And dad wants to know why.

​​ Don’t get me wrong – my dad is a wonderful father, a wonderful man. He’s only trying to help me. He asks: “What triggered all this?”

And I tell him. It was the same thing that just happened thirty minutes ago. I’d gone looking for help for the excruciating pain and intense fatigue I feel in my legs, after years of fractures and surgeries due to genetic disorder I have.

A knee surgeon, the same surgeon I saw six years ago when my eating disorder began, stood in a hospital consulting room and told me that my physical condition would be “a lot better” and I’d experience less pain if I weighed less, so go away and lose some weight. The first time this man told me this I was 21, and had never really paid much attention to my weight. Yes I cared if my clothes were getting a bit tight or if I had to reach for a size 14 instead of a 12, but I’d never owned a set of scales.

I resolved to lose weight. I signed up to Weight Watchers. I’m a perfectionist, and I dedicated myself to the task like I do everything else in life – relentlessly. I followed the plan and weighed in every week. Three months later, I wiggled into a size 6 dress for my graduation. The compliments wouldn’t stop coming. My dad was thrilled for me. “You look like Jennifer Anniston! I’ve never seen you look so well. We are so proud of you! You’ve done such a great thing for you health. Your body will thank you.”

But very soon after, it became clear this new look could not be maintained easily. The scale started to go up if I ate even the smallest snack between meals, I became ravenous and would go to bed at 8pm to try and avoid eating dinner. This went on for about six months before I ended up in front of my GP feeling distraught and hopeless, suicidal, saying to her that I didn’t know why I was SO FAT. She referred me to the aforementioned clinic.I told dad all of this. “You didn’t have an eating disorder,” he said. “You just need to make better choices.”

I try to explain, through tears, that it doesn’t work like that. That my brain just locks into a way of thinking, and I can’t stop it. It tells me to skip one meal, then another. Then I’m lying to my partner – saying I ate dinner earlier.

“Just don’t do that,” Dad says. “We all said, you got too thin. You don’t have to be like that again, just don’t be…”

Like this. Don’t be a size 16. And starve on a Wednesday and binge on a Sunday if you have to, just don’t be a size 16. Or God forbid, get any bigger.I have a friend who lost years of her life in hospital – hooked up to feeding tubes. She got so thin her heart stopped several times. I asked Dad if he’d give her the same advice he was giving me.

“I don’t know what I’d tell her,” he admits.

The kind of eating disorder I had has recently been reclassified – it’s now known as atypical anorexia. Anorexia in every sense except the dangerously low BMI. My weight got to 7 stone 10 at its lowest – according to my BMI, I could be 6 stone 10 and still classify as a “healthy weight.” So maybe my dad is right – maybe starving myself down another few stone, for the sake of my physical health, is worth it. Because let’s face it – I was never dangerously underweight. Was I? I just need to make better choices.

The author writes under a nom de plume

]]>https://minalloywritersclub.com/2018/08/17/atypical/feed/0THE RESIDUE OF A RELATIONSHIPhttps://minalloywritersclub.com/2018/08/17/the-residue-of-a-relationship/
https://minalloywritersclub.com/2018/08/17/the-residue-of-a-relationship/#respondFri, 17 Aug 2018 17:31:14 +0000https://minalloywritersclub.com/?p=142​​ THIS ISN’T a film about a breakup, but rather an intimate cinematic experience about a man rediscovering who he is without the love of his life.

Brett Chapman’s “The Residue of a Relationship”, explores the leftovers of love – the artefacts of a relationship – that ultimately change who we are as people. Reminiscent of a John Green or Woody Allen movie, Chapman’s visual diary is campy to the point of cheesiness, but gets away with it because of how utterly charming it is. Perhaps what makes it most special is the way it was captured and how it reveals the extent cinema has influenced our expectation of love.

Ebba, the Swedish girl Chapman met in Amsterdam, would become the source of an inspirational journey of self-discovery and love. But between the various photos and seemingly never ending amounts of video clips, the film almost feels inauthentic. How could one person be so prepared with everything that he needed in order to make this film? It turns out that circumstances would serendipitously lay the foundation of his project.Having promised his best friend that after college they’d go on a European adventure, Chapman was already prepared to capture his journey. Magically, he managed to film his very first meeting with Ebba and it couldn’t have felt more special to watch. For the next two years, he filmed constantly and obsessively because he felt that he was playing a part in his very own romantic movie.

“I felt like this cinematic romance was unfolding in my real life and I wanted to capture it – I wanted to acknowledge how important it was. So, when Ebba and I broke up and she left behind seven letters with specific instructions on when to open them, I realized I’d captured a real life romance, from beginning to end in an authentic and unplanned way,” Chapman reveals.

Individuality means something completely different to someone without a life partner. Who are we when we’re alone? Who do we share our daily struggles with and is it ok to be an independently functioning person sans significant other?Perhaps the most profound part of this self-discovery vlog was how much it encouraged soul searching and an openness to still reflect on past love. Ebba, whose sole role shined through her letters, was able to usher her ex-boyfriend through this process in a truly romantic way that one would find in the movies. Naturally, Chapman couldn’t resist turning his journey into a film.

“I think the cinema can teach us some wonderful lessons but it can also be a damaging influence, especially for young men. There’s this idea that if you’re good enough, if you make enough grand gestures – you’ll get the girl,” Chapman says.

Shattering our expectations about love through the cinematic lens, he forces us to realize that even with grand gestures, the guy doesn’t always get the girl in the end. Further still, it’s not heroic to hold onto someone who doesn’t love you back. Let the past be just that and while there may be little things left behind – a song, a movie, a photo – the real residue of a relationship is who you become thereafter.

Watch the Film Here: https://www.shortoftheweek.com/2017/06/05/the-residue-of-a-relationship/

]]>https://minalloywritersclub.com/2018/08/17/the-residue-of-a-relationship/feed/0NONE SHALL SLEEP – A SERENITY TALEhttps://minalloywritersclub.com/2018/08/17/none-shall-sleep-a-serenity-tale/
https://minalloywritersclub.com/2018/08/17/none-shall-sleep-a-serenity-tale/#respondFri, 17 Aug 2018 17:28:42 +0000https://minalloywritersclub.com/?p=139THE FORBIDDEN City theatre of Sihnon – beautiful, imposing, and terribly, terribly exclusive. Famed throughout the Verse for being host to the finest productions and players of the Alliance.

No finer setting than this for one of the most rare performances in the Verse. There are very few artefacts which remain from Earth-that-Was, but thankfully much of the culture of that old homestead was preserved over the exodus of man, and the settlement of the new worlds.

The Operahouse had hosted some of the most gloriously decadent performances since its construction, but tonight the stage was set for something special. A great and rare performance of an opera for which the place may well have been built for.

Puccini’s Turandot – a story set in China, of Earth-that-Was, the forebear of the planet Sihnon in much of its culture – performed here at the Forbidden Palace – a production so great and exclusive that anyone who is anyone in the whole Verse just had to be there, or more accurately, be seen to be there.

The great and the good of the Verse rubbed shoulders with the great and the not-so-good. Anyone who had a noble sash or a shiny hat mingled throughout the Operahouse, posing and smiling for any and all passing media.Avoiding the throng of gilded patrons, a gentleman sat alone, half-shadowed, in a box, patiently waiting for the opera to begin.

Had anyone noticed him, they may have remarked how it seemed odd that he wore sunglasses indoors, and indeed in a room that would soon be darkened for the performance. However, no one did notice him, and for this he was grateful.

​​ This gentleman was known to many in the room as the Dashing Mister Valentine, and dashing he certainly was; a Companion of the Highest Order, and highest price-range. A member of the Council of Three, Mister Valentine was the type of man one expected to see at these events, and it was for this precise reason he was happy not to be seen.

He wore his dark hair long, swept behind him. His features were masculine, and he wore a full beard and moustaches. In his black silk nehru, blood red cravat, and purple sash of nobility, he looked every bit the part of the gentleman, who one might expect to be wandering to and fro, glad-handing and bowing with the rest of the throng.

However, Mister Valentine, in his own mind, could well be one of the few attendees of tonight’s performance who was truly here for the opera. He sat alone, awaiting the arrival of his guest for the evening.He had received hundreds of invitations to this performance – many accompanied by generous and even decadent gifts – but he had extended only one of his own, and that one invitation was accepted. It was, after all, his free night, and he wished to spend it for pleasure, rather than for business.

One thing he certainly enjoyed about sitting in a private box, Mister Valentine thought, was the privacy it gave him to think.A Companion, he mused, is a member of the social elite, often accompanying the wealthy and the powerful. Accompanying, yes, but not serving. A common enough misconception – a Companion chooses their own clients, this was Guild Law. Custom with a Companion was a special relationship, not the purchasing of a service – the Companion was not bound to their client.

In the same way, the Companion Guild had a special relationship with the Alliance.Companions were a regular and welcome sight throughout the corridors of the Parliament on Londinium, and on the arms of officials, both civic and military, across the Verse. The Companion Guild was licensed by the Parliament itself, and though the Guild was very much on the loyalist side of the camp, Mister Valentine knew, instinctively, that loyalty could fade should there be cause for it.

He had not fought in the Independence War, of course. He could, from a philosophical standpoint, understand the Independents and their cause, however he thought that they must surely have understood, on some level, that theirs was a doomed cause from the very start.So in war, the way is to avoid what is strong, and strike at what is weak – the Alliance military had every strength to its advantage. The Independents, though brave, and noble, had few.

Such a waste of life, Mister Valentine had thought at the time. Now, though, as time went by, and new and shocking information came to light, more and more he found himself questioning what he thought he knew about the Alliance.

Not as a whole, of course, for he believed strongly that the Alliance was the right and lawful way that governance should be conducted. But he did have to wonder at a government that allowed certain parts of its military and civil structure to do such things as they had…no, best not to let that sully what he hoped would be a lovely evening.

The life of a Companion was seen by many as glamorous and wonderful. Indeed, much of the time it was – parties and balls, grand tours, delightful company, intense spiritual connection, incredible sex – this was the summit of the art for which many, many years were devoted to studying. It was, he thought, a very rewarding life, having the opportunity to bring joy and companionship to others, and to use his mastery of the many arts to better their lives.

However, one couldn’t help but think that, from time to time, things were not all champagne and roses. By the nature of some of his clientele he was privy to many little nuggets of knowledge that perhaps he shouldn’t be. Of course he would never utter them to anyone, not even under pain of torture or threat of death – that was not the way of the Guild.

That said, the contents of his mind, he knew, were valuable, and this made him a target. The Guild offered protection, of course, and his own not unformidable skillset, he allowed himself to gloat, would do for most would be attackers or detractors.

The information which took up the fullness of his attention at that time, however, was certainly more dangerous than anything he had previously been privy to. Rather than a confession or discussion with a client, this had first come from an overheard conversation within the Companion Guild’s temples on Sihnon.

Taking some time to meditate in one of the roof-top zen gardens, Mister Valentine had overheard a conversation which, he surmised, those conversing never thought would be overheard. If there was any worry of that, they would have been more careful.

Be still as the mountain, he willed himself, as he overheard the conversation. He could not see the men, not fully. He saw grey suits on two, and Companion robes on another. The strangest element he spied, however, were the hands; the men in suits were wearing blue gloves. At the time he didn’t think much of it, but now…he knew more. Much more.

Too much, he thought, bitterly, but swiftly shook that thought from his head. It was much better that he knew what he knew, for if he did not, he could not act, and this did indeed call for action.

This had been coming for some time, he mused. He recalled the state of the Council in the wake of the Miranda transmission. Some of his own clients, very top-brass in the military and some grand folk in the Parliament, were themselves in tatters over the matter. No one could make heads nor tails of the matter. Few could believe it, though as more and more information came from the various investigations of the media came across the Cortex, few could disagree with the evidence.

And then, from out of nowhere, he’d received a secretive message to meet with someone claiming to be an old friend with troubling news. Never one to shy away from a mystery, Mister Valentine had made the rendezvous as requested – alone, bladeless, skulking in a park in the dead of night. Quite fun, he had thought at the time. Then, she’d stepped forth, out of the shadows, that dear girl he had himself taught at the Madrassa, looking not a day older than the many years since he’d last seen her, save for the furrowed brow and concerned look. And the information she imparted…oh, that fateful, awful news.

They’d been in semi-regular contact ever since, keeping one another abreast of goings on. Her last message played through his head, over and over. Jinlong, he called her, lest anyone overhear them, had given him what he had need most – names.

Now, he had his start. Now, he could begin.

He knew now that it was time for action – he would delay no longer – but he needed support.

He needed, he laughed inwardly, companions. Jinlong could not help – she had her own trials to face, and had put herself in great danger just to speak with him. If she had been traced, if her crew had been found…He tried to turn his mind from troubling matters, but found himself drawn back again and again to the matter.

In training since the age of twelve, years and years of discipline and preparation before even the faintest mention of the acts of physical pleasure for which the Companion Guild seemed to be most famed in less than couth society…

A terrifying prospect, he thought, should someone seek to subvert this training, and compel the exceedingly capable graduates of the Guild into a service more martial than ceremonial.

Should these blue-handed demons have their way, every echelon of society which found themselves in the company of a Companion could, at the mere utterance of a word, find themselves instead facing an adept and capable warrior.

Companion training included social and physical grace, some level of performing arts, and, very importantly, psychology. This, when combined with some of the less common training regimens, such as the ones he undertook in the Academy – martial arts, marksmanship, swordplay – and, well, he shuddered to think of the possibilities.

An army of assassins, activated by a code-word, at the beck and call of the most shadowy element of the Alliance military. The thought of it sent a wave of ice throughout his entire body.

No. It would not do, and he would stop it. He had time, he was sure – the plans were clearly in their infancy, from what he’d managed to discover of late. For this desecration of the sacred arts of the Companion Guild, the ruling council would need to be overthrown and replaced by those sympathetic to the Alliance’s militaristic side. There were few enough of these, he mused, though there could be more every day – he had no true notion of the Alliances powers. If they could alter the mind of someone enough that a word would send them from graceful to gutting, what else could they have up their sleeves?

There were some in the Guild he was certain could be trusted, but not so certain about many others. He knew not where the eyes and ears of the Alliance had secreted themselves, so a cabal within the Companion Houses of Sihnon and Londinium was a less than wise move.

Inspiration, however, had struck when he had travelled over to Londinium, to White Chapel, on Guild business. The Companion Guild received its licence to practice from Parliament – Registered Companions operated across the Verse – but further out from the Core, where the influence of the Alliance dwindled, so too did the reach of the Guild.

Across the Frontier worlds one found whorehouses – where only the carnal arts were practised, and, Mister Valentine thought, practised was a generous term. Out on the Rim it was very rare to find a Registered Companion, though there were some who travelled.

Increasingly of late, he thought, more Companions ‘took to the Black’ as they called it – a trend, perhaps a lasting one, and he knew where that had started.

There were exceptions, of course – a fringe group of, well, they called themselves Companions, but the Guild did not recognise them – this alternative Guild had set themselves up and began to service the Rim.To some in the council, this rogue sect was a thorn in the side, but Mister Valentine could not help but see their actions as an opportunity. He had argued in Council that the Guild send a deputation to treat with the Lotus. This had been soundly rejected, as he knew it would, but he had managed to convince the Council to allow him to appoint an unofficial ‘ambassador’ to the Lotus.

Indeed, it was both a matter of Guild future-proofing, and personal insurance that he was keen to forge such a relationship. In time, Mister Valentine knew, there could be some form of steady relationship established. It was this business which brought him to Londinium for the grand finale of the Sports Ball tournament, to the dingy district of White Chapel, where he knew the Lotus Guild would be for the celebrations.He knew that they kept regular company with one of his own, a Registered Companion named Eva Nightingale, for whom Mister Valentine had always held a slightly paternal soft-spot.

He trusted Eva – time and time again she had proved herself to be capable, intelligent, and loyal – though of course, he allowed a small smile to himself, she had had an exceptional teacher at the Madrassa.

Under the guise of testing Eva’s abilities, he was able to meet with, and indeed assess, some members of the Lotus Guild themselves. One evening was enough for him to know that these were good people on whom, he allowed his faith in his own judgement to tell him, he could rely on to aid him. His psychological abilities bordered on the preternatural, he’d been told in his training days, and they’d yet to steer him wrong.

He had appointed Eva as the Guild’s ambassador to the Lotus, which allowed him to maintain regular contact with them, without drawing any unwanted attention or suspicion. The Council would, he was sure, chalk it up as another one of Mister Valentine’s strange ideas, and leave him to his devices.

It had, of course, allowed him to arrange this evening’s meeting. The orchestra began to slowly fill the pit – it wouldn’t be too long now before the commencement of the Overture, and he sincerely hoped his guest wouldn’t miss that.

There are not more than five musical notes, yet the combinations of these five give rise to more melodies than can ever be heard – he mused on a recent reading, allowing his mind to drift from the troubling thoughts. It would not do to let them spoil the evening, even though they must be spoken after a time.

“Care for another glass, Mister Valentine?” asked his box’s servitor.He considered this for a moment. “Actually I’m quite alright, thank-you.”This was not the same servitor by whom he had been welcomed to the box. It could be that there had been a change of servitor, but this was unusual. So too, he thought, was the fact that his servitor was now male, unshaven, had a large tattoo creeping up his neck over the ill-fitting servitor uniform, and indeed that the servitor was pointing a gun at him.“I think you ought to come with me, Mister Valentine.”

He thought for a moment – there will be no shooting here in the theatre; the amount of nobles and dignitaries present meant that the level of security was higher than the already fairly high level at the Forbidden City Operahouse. No, they’d be taking him away somewhere.

The fact that they were here at all meant there must be a significant amount of investment in this move, to be able to get inside the Operahouse with a weapon and up to the private boxes. Not too much, he thought, as this is clearly a street thug in a borrowed disguise. To have undertaken this with finesse, if he’d been doing this himself, he would have laced the champagne with a sleeping draught. This was too sloppy – there were too many variables open here.

No, this was the mark of a lack of sophistication. No one in the Guild, he was confident, would have hired thugs, or even contracted out to someone who would handle this in such a manner.

He was safe then, he surmised, from this being a move based on the fears he had so recently been mulling over as he awaited the night’s entertainments. It followed that his tardy companion was safe too, which relieved him somewhat.

“Of course, do lead on” replied Mister Valentine.

“No no, you first, I insist,” said the thug, gesturing with the pistol.

Not that stupid then, thought Mister Valentine. As they stepped out into the hallway behind the boxes he noted that there were no security present – they must have been bought off then – definitely a decent bit of cash had been thrown at this, still not enough to make him worry too much.Damn. He would miss the entire bloody opera, which was criminal enough – when the opportunity to view Puccini presents itself, a chap should go through hell and high-water for it – but he would also miss the delightful company of the charming lady with whom he was to spend the evening.Terrible on its own of course, but moreso given the necessity and timeliness of their meeting, for he had much to impart that desperately needed imparting.

Out through the servitor’s door behind a curtain, and through to a staircase. Ah, he thought, as they entered the stairwell – here were the man’s friends. An array of four thugs stood waiting for them on the first landing of the stairwell.

There’ll be no taking him out just now, thought Mister Valentine. He noted the array of weapons before him – only one pistol, the rest were blades and bats – it could have been much worse.“Take his stick off him,” said one of the thugs.

Mister Valentine looked down at the cane in his hand. “Would you mind if I kept it? Only, it really does help me to walk.”

“Give it,” said the pistol thug, snatching the cane up. The cane contained a sword, of course, though he doubted the thugs had any notion of this – they merely wanted to remove any form of weapon from his hands.Faking a limp, Mister Valentine began to slowly head down the stairs, leaning heavily on the bannister.

“Hurry up,” said the pistol thug, digging the barrel into the back of Mister Valentine’s neck.

“This is as fast as I can go I’m afraid, old sport. Bit of a war wound, you see.”Appear weak when you are strong, he thought. He had been re-reading the Art of War only last night, on his annual revisit of the tome. More Companions, he thought, should make a study of the many elements of war. When he taught at the Madrassa House he had made it a required reading for his students, along with the various Sutra.

The thugs led him to the bottom of the stairwell, the grandeur of the Operahouse steadily receding into the more dull, service-based areas of the lower portions of the complex. A door at the foot of the stairs led through a loading area, where a group of servitors, smoking on the far-side of the bay, hurriedly disappeared as they saw the thugs approach.

Mister Valentine stumbled a few times on the walk across the bay, to reinforce the thug’s view that he was indeed in need of the use of his cane.No security down in the bay, Mister Valentine noted. No obvious kidnap vehicle either. The service door on the far side of the loading bay led to an alleyway, he guessed. That would be the place. Move not unless you see an advantage, he thought to himself. Give them enough time and they’ll make your opportunity for you.

The alleyway brought in a rush of night air, and darkness consumed the group as they stepped outside of the loading bay. Here and there along the alleyway were lamps, creating small islands of light along the gloomy pathway.

Mister Valentine missed his footing, descending the single step into the alleyway, and lurched forward, falling against a large bin, punching the metal to make the impact sound more impressive. He groaned as he tried to right himself, and was roughly yanked upwards by one of the thugs.“I thought you lot were meant to have special training and be all dangerous as well as graceful. You’re a limping mess. Are we sure we’ve got the right one?” spat one of the thugs.

“Of course it’s the right one,” grunted the thug with the pistol.“We are trained in a variety of art forms. If you have a teapot handy, I can give you a demonstration?” quipped Mister Valentine.

That earned him a thwack in the side of the head from the thug with the pistol, which knocked his glasses from his face.Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night, and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt, he thought, as he reeled from the contact of the weapon. He struck swiftly, yanking the top of his cane, freeing the blade from the thug’s hand. He stumbled like a drunken monkey into a spin, and slashing his blade fiercely as he did so. It made contact with one of the thug’s face, drawing a crimson lightning bolt across his face, sending the thug reeling back in pain.

The alleyway was suddenly bright with the flashes from the pistol’s muzzle and the thug began to fire wildly in shock. Mister Valentine counted the shots and he righted himself, enjoying the knowledge that one of the thugs had just been peppered with friendly fire.

Move swift as the Wind and closely-formed as the Wood, attack like the Fire – the axioms went through his mind as he darted between two of the thugs whose badly aimed swings with their bats missed him by mere inches, and made an almighty clack as they collided.

More light in short bursts, more noises blaring from the gun as it barked to life. The wise warrior avoids the battle, he knew, but when you’re led into an alley at gunpoint by a group of thugs, there are only a few ways that situation will go.

One, bullet-full, slumped against the wall. One, red-faced, writhing on the floor. Two, reeling from smashing one another with bats. One, firing wildly. The latter, he knew, would be dealt with last, after he’d finished panicking. The other two were the more imminent threat, as long as he kept them between him and the pistol.

A bat came toward him. Mister Valentine shifted his footing and twisted out of the way, pointing his blade into the path of the batsman’s follow-through, and piercing him deeply. Deep enough that the blade was yanked from Mister Valentine’s hand as the body fell.

Damn. Fisticuffs it is then, he thought as he rounded on the second batsman, allowing his hands to fall around the lower portion of the bat as it came down on him, shuffling aside to use the momentum, disarming the poor fool, and breaking the bat in twain over his head as he span.Mister Valentine dropped the now useless handle, and turned to face the final thug.

“Is that it? Are you done now? All your fancy karate gimmicks spent? You’ve no gun, you’ve no blade, you’ve no fucking chance.” spat the thug.Mister Valentine shook his head, “I’ve no need of those now.”“Too fucking right you don’t.” The thug advanced.“The supreme art of war,” he said “is to subdue the enemy without fighting.”He saw the pistol flash up to meet his face, a grin on the attacker’s face as it did so.

“Makes it a lot easier for me to kill you then,” the attacker gloated.Mister Valentine only smiled.“Any last words, Companion?”Mister Valentine looked his attacker squarely in the eyes. “Perhaps a final lesson? Who wishes to fight must first count the cost.”

The attacker’s smug expression was replaced by confusion slowly melting across his face.“I don’t get it,” he said, jabbing the barrel of the pistol into Mister Valentine’s nose.

“I was quoting. Throughout this fight of ours I’ve been recalling my lessons, from an ancient tome that came with us across the stars from Earth-that-Was. Really, the quote doesn’t have too much relevance here, but I was struggling to come up with something fitting about counting.”“What? Why?”

“How many bullets do you have left, friend?”Another, darker expression began to melt over the thug’s face. No more time for words, Mister Valentine thought, recognising the look of a man about to kill.

*click*

*click* *click* *click*

The thug blanched, and stepped back.Mister Valentine merely observed him. The thug’s lip began to tremble, but he quickly regained himself.

“He who is prudent and lies in wait for an enemy who is not, will be victorious,” said Mister Valentine.The thug opened his mouth to speak, his words emerged as a silver point, followed by a spout of red which dribbled down his chin. The point receded, and the thug crumbled to the ground.Mister Valentine straightened his nehru, ran his fingers through his hair to return it to his trade-mark sweeping mop, and graciously accepted the return of his glasses from the hand which proffered them from the shadows.

In return, Mister Valentine produced a handkerchief, and offered it to the shadowy figure. Stepping forward into the small pool of light from the streetlamps, the dapper figure wiped clean his blade with the handkerchief, and slid it deftly into the scabbard which hung from his belt. Steely haired, dressed in an elegant court-jacket of a similar colour, and nobly belted, the gentleman made to hand back the kerchief to Mister Valentine.

“Please,” Mister Valentine protested “do keep it.”With a smile the figure let the handkerchief, now more claret than its original white, drop onto the body from whence its colour had come.“I thought you would be around this evening,” Mister Valentine spoke to the gentleman “I would have been terribly shocked if you had missed an opportunity to view Turandot.”The gentleman inclined his head in agreement.“I take it you saw me exit pursued by several bears, and followed?”

The gentleman nodded his assent.“Well I’m terribly glad that you did,”

The gentleman raised an eyebrow, and cast a swift look around the alleyway at the variety of bodies.

“Perhaps I had the situation in hand, yes. But it’s always nice to have a friend show up with an extra pair of hands.”The gentleman smiled.“The lady is nearby, I presume?” asked Mister Valentine.

At this the gentleman nodded, and pointed towards the sky, just as the sounds and lights of a shuttlecraft filled the night.“Flair for the dramatic, you Lotuses have. Did you teach them that, Fleider?”

The gentleman grinned.Another noise followed the roar of the shuttle’s engine as it washed over them – the unmistakable sound of sirens approaching, and the muffled sounds of shouting from within the loading bay.

“Ah,” Mister Valentine retrieved his blade “I wondered when the gunshots would attract attention. Time to leave, I think.”The shuttle landed in a square just beyond Fleider’s end of the alleyway – Mister Valentine and Fleider departed the body-crowded alleyway, and boarded quickly.

Taking stock of his surroundings, Mister Valentine found himself in a shuttle not much larger than his box at the Operahouse. He considered for a moment that they might return in time for Act Two at the very least, but dismissed the notion as quickly as it came.

Seated at the helm was darling Eva, who gave him a warm smile as she piloted them away from the Forbidden City Operahouse. She wore a black leather pilot’s jacket, and for all the sweetness about her face, Mister Valentine knew her to be just as talented with a blade as she was with the singing voice which gave her her name.

Stood next to her, the other occupant of the cockpit turned to face Mister Valentine. Clad in a red silk cheongsam, fastened with a golden dragon clasp – a nice touch, he allowed himself a smirk – stood Siren-Mei of the Lotus Guild, the lady with whom he had hoped to enjoy Turandot that evening.

“Mister Valentine. I am not a woman who is accustomed to being stood up – you had best explain yourself.” she exclaimed with mock anger, one eye twinkling with mischief, the other unreadable beneath a black, jewel-encrusted patch.The author writes under a nom de plumeIllustration: Library of Rebirth, Noah Bradley

]]>https://minalloywritersclub.com/2018/08/17/none-shall-sleep-a-serenity-tale/feed/0MATERNAL ESTRANGEMENThttps://minalloywritersclub.com/2018/08/17/maternal-estrangement/
https://minalloywritersclub.com/2018/08/17/maternal-estrangement/#respondFri, 17 Aug 2018 17:25:45 +0000https://minalloywritersclub.com/?p=136MY IN-LAWS are visiting for the weekend. They took an hour-long flight then drove for four hours to stay with us for two nights, so that they could spend time with their granddaughter, our baby girl, Sophie. They make this trip every six weeks or so and Skype with us at least once a week because they want to spend as much time with Sophie as possible, but live in a different country.

You, my mother, live in a village that is ten minutes’ drive from our house. You see Sophie less than the parents who live overseas, but you delude yourself that you are a doting, loving grandparent.

When Sophie was born a year and a half ago, you and my dad were the only people we invited to visit her in the hospital. She is an egg donor baby and we had waited seven years for her, during which time we went through quite a lot: donors coming forward then disappearing; my own mental and physical illnesses brought on by my menopause at age 17; failed egg retrievals and embryo transfers, before finally, this one, this precious, beautiful little miracle grew in my tummy and popped out like a tiny perfect rainbow after a very long, very relentless storm.

​​ You had had nothing on all day, yet you arrived ten minutes before the end of visiting hours. When you got to our room, you complained about the hospital car park. I’m not sure whether you even noticed the newborn in my arms, until I held her up to you and felt like I forced you into paying attention.

Before I went into hospital, you had told me excitedly that you intended to buy a helium balloon to celebrate the birth of my baby. I asked if you had bought one and you told me, yes, a lovely one. I asked where it was, thinking perhaps you had left it outside in the hospital corridor as a surprise. “Oh it’s outside our house,” came the reply. “All the neighbours have congratulated us and brought us cards and presents.” I never saw the balloon, and neither did Sophie.

We didn’t see you at all after that for about a month. And when I asked you why not, you said you were giving us space to adjust as a new family unit. My in-laws moved into our house for a week after we brought Sophie home from hospital. They cooked for us, kept the house clean, washed and dried countless baby clothes and let me rest when I needed to. My mother-in-law asked us why you had not visited and were not helping at all. We didn’t know why. We couldn’t understand why you weren’t falling over yourself to spend time with your new grandchild. But a year and a half later, you are still not interested and the penny is finally dropping. You don’t, and maybe never did, care – you are simply not interested in us, or our baby.

It would hurt less if you would just come clean and say as much. But instead we are stuck in this passive-aggressive little dance, with you forever pretending that you are interested in our baby, giving us just enough to keep us thinking that maybe things will change soon, that you really are just very busy at the moment and will make up for the missed opportunities for bonding and spending time with her, soon.

It’s true that you look after her for four hours every week while I spend time running a business. But that is completely on your terms. I drop Sophie off at your house and pick her up four hours later. You get defensive when I ask how you’ve spent the time, and quite often I think you lie to me about what she’s eaten and how much she’s slept. And you always make a point of having something else to do immediately afterwards, which means that Sophie and I must always leave straight away.

When we leave, we go to the local zoo or for a walk in the forest or to the park. Sometimes we meet up with a friend and their child. Usually it’s just me and Sophie, and that’s really fine, we like each other a lot. But when I see other children with their parents and grandparents, I can’t help feeling sad for her at your lack of interest.

Sometime during the first few months of Sophie’s life, your father, from whom you were estranged, died. You did not attend his funeral. You did, however, spend every weekend and some weekdays for about eight months, sorting through his house and looking through his old diaries for clues about his affairs and illegitimate children. Whenever I suggested we meet up, this was your excuse not to. You missed most of your granddaughter’s first year of life because you were sorting out the affairs of a man you hadn’t spoken to for 20 years.

Four weeks ago, my husband had a spinal injection for a slipped disc. You offered to help over the weekend and we gratefully accepted. But when you arrived at our house, you told us you would give us “a good hour”, took Sophie out in her pram, and returned exactly one hour later, to leave and go back home. We managed to have lunch in that time but nothing else. But we have to be so grateful for your help and support, because you continue to remind us of it for weeks afterwards.

To our extended family, you keep an excellent pretence of being an involved grandmother. Sophie was unwell on Easter Sunday at my auntie’s house, and you made sure everyone could see how concerned you were. When we left early to try t0 settle her, you told me that you would call me the next day to see how she was. You haven’t called me on the phone for years, and I knew that there would be no call the next day. But I had to keep up the pretence for you in front of family, so I smiled and said, “OK, speak to you tomorrow.”

I wish I could call you out on your lies. Just say in front of everyone, you won’t call me because you never do. Please stop pretending to care when you really don’t. I have told my auntie that we communicate solely by email these days. She laughed because it’s so bizarrely funny. You never answer my phone calls and always say you don’t get my texts, so you’ve engineered the most formal way for us to stay in touch, and it’s hilarious. I get emails from you every now and then with the subject “Thursday” and the content being about how you’re meeting Janet for lunch at 1pm on Thursday so can I please collect Sophie as early as possible after you’ve looked after her.

About a year ago, I tried to have an honest conversation about all this. I said that I missed you and that I just wanted to spend time with you, and for Sophie to spend time with her granny. I said that we didn’t need space to adjust as a family, and that if you gave us any more space we might as well be estranged. You said that was mean and stormed out. I sent you an email to apologise. You did not reply. You ignored me for a few weeks, then everything gradually went back to how it was. We never spoke of it again and I daren’t bring it up in case you disappear completely from our lives.Last week was perhaps the final straw for me (but then who’s counting?). I had a something a bit like a colonoscopy in a hospital an hour away. You looked after Sophie in my house while I drove myself to the hospital and back. When I got home, you had your coat on, ready to leave as soon as possible, to get home for the afternoon. Before you left, you lingered in the house, telling me how guilty you felt for leaving me and Sophie alone. I said you were welcome to stay, but you made your (see-through) excuses and left. I took Sophie to the zoo and we wandered around the animal enclosures, her laughing and falling over and waving hello to everyone we walked past, me feeling overwhelmingly sad and alone.

And so here we are at what feels like stalemate. I can’t go back to pretending that you care, but we can’t move forward to a more honest relationship. I’m happier than I’ve ever been in every aspect of my life except for my relationship with you. Maybe it will stay like this for years.

The author uses a nom de plume

]]>https://minalloywritersclub.com/2018/08/17/maternal-estrangement/feed/0DODDY AND MEhttps://minalloywritersclub.com/2018/08/17/doddy-and-me/
https://minalloywritersclub.com/2018/08/17/doddy-and-me/#respondFri, 17 Aug 2018 17:23:45 +0000https://minalloywritersclub.com/?p=132HUNDREDS OF mourners gathered in Liverpool today for the funeral of the comedian, Sir Ken Dodd, who died last month, aged 90. Fans lined the streets outside his home in Knotty Ash as his funeral cortege, led by a horse-drawn carriage, left and travelled to Liverpool Cathedral.

WHEN I was seven years old I went to see a pantomime in what felt like the biggest and grandest theatre in the world. It was The Palace in Manchester, and to me it was beyond anything I’d ever imagined, all plush red velvet and shining brass, and I was electrified with excitement. I was wearing a red tartan kilt and new shoes and it was probably the most exhilarating moment of my life so far. But what would come during the setting up of the stage for the finale would go on to ignite a passion and set the course for a large part of my life.

​​ Even boarding the coach to Manchester from our village, I had been very much looking forward to seeing Ken Dodd – I knew him and his simple humour from the TV variety shows of the day, and my nana and granddad had even brought me a ‘tickling stick’ from one of his notoriously long stand-up gigs. And then there he was, on stage in all his shiny polyester panto glory. It was marvellous.

During the change of scenery for the panto’s finale, Doddy came out on stage in front of the closed curtains and asked for a boy and a girl to come up and sing a song. Cast members came into the audience to find willing children. A little girl three rows in front of me was pressing herself into her seat, refusing to budge for the chorus girl attempting to coax her up. I almost stood on my seat, making myself as tall as I could with my hand in the air and shouting “me, me, me!” I think I remember my mum asking me if I was sure, but if she did I paid no heed as I darted into the aisle at the slightest hint of a nod from the cast member and careened down to the front rows.

I remember the distinct coldness of her hand as she led me down the aisle, to the side of the stage and up the steps. The lights were so warm and bright and I could barely see past them to the audience. And then I was face to face with Doddy, his tousled nest of hair and protruding teeth all the more ridiculous close up. I was fascinated by the orange pancake makeup on his face and the bright red dots in the corners of his eyes, a stage illusion invisible from the seats. And then the act began.He did a little interview with each of us kids, and was so friendly and genuinely sweet.

“What’s your name?”“Rachel.”“And where are you from?”“Helsby.” (Entire coach from Helsby roars in approval)“Oh I know, that’s on the Wirral isn’t it!”“Yeah!”

I actually had no idea, but his smile and enthusiasm was just contagious. Then it was time to sing – a cappella, the orchestra sat this one out. Doddy would sing a line, then the boy, then Doddy, then me. The tune was Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

“Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer,” began Doddy in his signature warble.Come the boy’s line, he bottled it, barely squeaking a word. Doddy sang again. “And if you ever saw it,”Then it was my turn. The spirit of Dean Martin possessed me and I crooned as loudly into the mic as I could.“You would even say it glooooows…”

​​ Years of sitting on my granddad’s knee in the kitchen and singing everything from swing to show tunes and music hall finally paid off. My style was naturally blue, low and syncopated from a then-lifetime of exposure to ‘Ol Blue Eyes, Tom Jones and Shirley Bassey and I was giving it everything I had. Doddy was visibly delighted and eventually just handed the mic to me to finish the song.

When it was all over I gleefully clutched the goodie bag that was handed to me and I was led back off stage. The cast member gripped me by the shoulders this time, squeezing me excitedly and saying well done over and over. I saw the poor girl who had refused to get up getting a good finger-wagging from her mother. My own mum was elated but somewhat dumbfounded – my parents hadn’t known that I had a voice until this point. I remained oblivious to the rest of the panto. I’d tasted the stage.It set me on a course to music becoming an ever-bigger part of my life. National songwriting competition at Earl’s Court at 10 years old, wedding band singer at 15, funk band frontwoman in Dubai at 21, freelance musician in Shanghai at 26. But that first performance always stayed with me, as did the kindness and comfort that Ken Dodd exuded for a little girl on stage for the first time.

For a working-class family from the North West – as mine was – Ken Dodd was a real treasure. Simple, friendly and a true performer, he never forgot his roots – in fact, he based his entire act around them. I met him once again, years later, in a hotel lobby in Liverpool. I blurted out how we had first met and he was gracious enough to pretend that he remembered. Tatty bye Doddy, we really won’t see one like you again.

FIVE OF DODDY’S BEST:

SHE WAS a big girl – she could stir fry a leg of lamb. She tried the “speak your weight” machine. It said: “To be continued.”I HAVE kleptomania. But when it gets bad, I take something for it.I USED to think I was marvellous in bed – until I discovered all my girlfriends suffered from asthma.THE MAN who invented Cats’ Eyes got the idea when he saw the eyes of a cat in his headlights. If the cat had been going the other way, he would have invented the pencil sharpener.DO I believe in safe sex? Of course I do. I have a handrail around the bed.

MAIN PICTURE: GETTY IMAGES

Rachel Silvestri

]]>https://minalloywritersclub.com/2018/08/17/doddy-and-me/feed/0MAKING A BABYhttps://minalloywritersclub.com/2018/08/17/making-a-baby/
https://minalloywritersclub.com/2018/08/17/making-a-baby/#respondFri, 17 Aug 2018 17:21:52 +0000https://minalloywritersclub.com/?p=129MY BROTHER is making a baby. If my parents had made us in the same way, we wouldn’t exist.

I understand his reasons. He doesn’t want his child to suffer the same things we have. Doesn’t want to put his partner through the pain and heartbreak our mum went through.

A genetic disease runs in our family. The process he’s about to undertake – the incredibly expensive, invasive, long and complicated process – aims to stop it in its tracks (but it might not). The baby could still be born with a host of other ills, genetic or otherwise, like those that knock you down later in life. God forbid.

But the baby won’t have what we have.

​​ I’m so excited to be an auntie. I adore my brother in every way and I completely support his decision. But I keep coming back to that one thought – he and I wouldn’t be here.

In this process, the sperm and egg that made him and me would have been tested for our ‘faulty’ gene in vitro and then thrown away. Swept into the bin.

He says that’s not the case, that we would be here just without the disease that’s caused us a lifetime of pain, fear and challenges. But we all know that’s not true. Two other completely different babies would have been born. It doesn’t matter to me how difficult how lives have been – I’m still glad we’re here, living them.

So yeah, my brother is making a baby.

The author writes under a nom de plume.

]]>https://minalloywritersclub.com/2018/08/17/making-a-baby/feed/0WHAT MAKES A WOMAN’S CAREER ‘STAGNATE’? CHILDREN.https://minalloywritersclub.com/2018/08/17/what-makes-a-womans-career-stagnate-children/
https://minalloywritersclub.com/2018/08/17/what-makes-a-womans-career-stagnate-children/#respondFri, 17 Aug 2018 17:20:32 +0000https://minalloywritersclub.com/?p=126HOW MUCH will gender inequality cost your employer? Steering clear of recent tribunal case studies, what is the real cost to employers who discriminate against women? Who tell them, as one told me, that motherhood involves career “sacrifice”?

Three out of four working mothers claim they have been victims of discrimination at work as a result of having children. Being passed over for promotion, enduring a lack of job opportunities and suffering pressure to quit were among the women’s claims, identified by the Equality and Human Rights commission in a report commissioned by ministers. Employers who discriminate against women are not only foolish. They will lose the best staff.

​​ Working mothers deserve nothing short of a medal. They bring tremendous attributes, honed through the carnage of working 40-hour weeks, washing eight loads a day, making 15 separate school runs and preparing too many quick teas to count.

Being a working mother does not mean you are only half there – half your brain focussed on work, the other half preoccupied with the kids. From experience, it means you are often working twice as hard, planning meticulously your working day and becoming an organised commander because you know your other job awaits when you get home.

You have to leave on time when you have a school or nursery pick up. But when did leaving on time mean you weren’t committed to your job? When did requesting an afternoon off to attend parents’ evening become a big deal? Why is that different to someone requesting time off for a hen weekend? Why is it alien to WANT to further your career as well as have young children?

A senior executive – female – told me while discussing my application for a promotion that because I had children, I had to accept that my career “may stay stagnant”, a “sacrifice” I had to make. Why?

My children don’t beg me to stay at home all day. And even if they did – tough. Unfortunately, like millions of British families, we couldn’t survive on just one wage. The worse thing is, this piece of diamond advice came from a woman. A fellow mother who should have known better.What chances have we if female bosses don’t understand? At that time, I needed some intellectual advice from a superior whom I looked up to. A professional opinion based on fairness and realistic chances of career progression, regardless of whether I had children, five dogs, two cats or ten horses.

None of that should make a difference – unless I brought it into the equation. So why did she raise it when I didn’t? If I hadn’t have told her I had three children, she wouldn’t have known. I don’t want – and never have wanted – any special treatment just because I am a mother. I want just fair treatment. The same opportunities as everyone else.

The simple truth is that if companies ignore what is fair, legal and morally right, they will alienate so many of their potential work force they may well end up with the dross. And it is already happening to some employers.Society seems to love young, carefree high flyers. Women who have it all. They can be flexible, work long hours, re-locate. And you know what? Good on them. I begrudge them nothing – that was me once.But along with their unwavering loyalty comes their inexperience. Those women with no children may indeed have them one day.So let’s be fair to them, too, and set the correct precedent.

The author, who has three children, uses a nom de plume.

Harriet Edwards

]]>https://minalloywritersclub.com/2018/08/17/what-makes-a-womans-career-stagnate-children/feed/0SINGLE IN SHANGHAIhttps://minalloywritersclub.com/2018/08/17/single-in-shanghai/
https://minalloywritersclub.com/2018/08/17/single-in-shanghai/#respondFri, 17 Aug 2018 17:19:14 +0000https://minalloywritersclub.com/?p=123TWENTY SOMETHING questions for a 20-something, single woman in Shanghai – the real life story of Teresa Feng. What it’s like to grow up in “the best place in China” and not become a “bad girl”?

I – Am I a Bad Girl?I TWISTED open the pungent, cheap nail varnish and started to apply a slick coat to hide my calcium deficient nails, one after the other. Teresa beamed in awe, “Wow. It’s so pretty.” She paused. “My father would never let me paint my nails. He said he would beat me if he saw them painted. Only bad girls paint their nails.”I was gobsmacked. This was my first introduction to the Chinese female ideal. Teresa begged I paint her nails regardless, and when she came into work the next day, I rushed over to see if they were still painted.“What did he say?” I asked with concern.“He said he doesn’t like them, but I and my mother do.”She dazzled and danced her fingers against mine. We were matching.

II – On Family LifeTERESA FENG, 24, was born in Shanghai and grew up in a family home that was built by her great, great Grandfather. They were a poor family but owned quite a bit of land, so young Teresa could play out with her friends; her favourite thing would be to draw outside using chalk.Shanghai’s economic wheels cogged into motion and the advancing city was soon declared as China’s financial hub. More and more staggering sky rises would unearth over a once flat landscape.“The underground was only built 10 years ago and there were no cars when I was a child, so we would always travel by bicycle or bus and you’d only need to carry a few mao,” said Teresa. This is the equivalent of a few pence. An ice cream would set you back five mao (6p), now, five yuan (60p), and a bus ticket would be one mao (2p), now 3 yuan (40p).In the early 2000s, the government set out to house millions in residential high rises, because there’s unlimited space in the sky, right? In 2006, officials wanted to build in the location of where Teresa and her family lived, and planned ultimately to bulldoze their family home.I asked Teresa about how this made her family feel, expecting her to say “Outraged”. She replied: “My family were extremely happy. In return for losing our home, they gifted us with four flats in the high rise block, which are worth one million yuan each (£100,000). We went from a traditional, Shanghainese, poor family, to one of the richest. In Shanghai, your level of wealth is assessed by others according to how many flats you own.”In 2018, the number of residential high rises in the city are unsurprisingly uncountable, and Teresa has noticed a difference between her childhood and those of the children we teach. “Now, people don’t know their neighbours, and kids play inside on their iPads.”I ask Teresa about equality in the Shanghainese household. She says that it’s traditional for the men in the family to do most of the cooking and cleaning (sign me up to live here for good, please). “It’s their way of showing respect to their wives,” she said.“My aunt is an amazing cook so she will do most of the cooking, but my uncle will be the one behind the scenes of the great cooking, washing the dishes, preparing the vegetables. Men in Dongbei (North East China) make fun of Shanghainese men and say that they’re not manly – here, they’ll do anything their wives tell them to.“But I eat out a lot with my parents because my mum is lazy and my dad doesn’t help her as much as my uncle would. My dad earns a lot more money than my mum, and anyone else in the family. I can’t cook. Most people my age can’t cook.”

III – On free timeAS A self-confessed tomboy, Teresa will leave work and instantly spend hours playing online games until the early hours of the morning. “I sleep. Sometimes for 16 hours, and I’ll only wake up because my father barges into my room when he returns from work and shouts at me.”I wanted to compare how young women in the West spent their free time compared to young women in the East, and this certain setup sounds pretty familiar. “My friends and I will meet for milk tea, or we’ll see a film and have a dinner together,” Teresa said.“We’ll all discuss our colleagues – ‘one of my colleagues bla bla bla, she’s such a bitch hahah’.” Sounds close to home, right? But then here comes the stark difference. “In Chinese peoples’ minds, if you have a tattoo, if you colour your hair, if you smoke, if you come home late, or if you drink alcohol and go to the nightclub, you’re a bad girl.”A few weeks ago, Teresa bought some fake tattoos from China’s popular online shopping site, Taobao, and printed one of the dainty infinity symbols onto her middle finger. “That evening I went for a meal with my grandparents. My grandfather, who is usually a very warm and soft person, got really angry with me when he saw my hand. He said, ‘What’s this? Can it be washed? In our family, a girl can’t do that.’ And in my mind, I also agree.”Since the age of five, Teresa has been drilled by her family that a girl can’t smoke or colour her hair. “I’ve had this message in my mind for 20 years now, so now, I believe that girls can’t do that. Maybe in ten years, if I have a daughter, I’ll also tell her the same.”But what about men? I’ve never seen so many smokers in all of my life, particularly among young males. Only last year, smoking was banned indoors in China, but I still see men smoking in Tesco. And what about peer pressure? Surely if her friend orders a beer, Teresa might want to try one? Or what if her friend colours her hair, would she not be tempted too?“I think the same for men and women. If he’s not my boyfriend or if she’s not my friend, it’s OK – they can go to nightclubs. There’s a Chinese saying about the same people getting together. At school, my class was divided – those who stayed out late and had tattoos, and those who would only drink cola or order milk tea. My mum first told me at Junior School that if I were to go out and not be home by 11pm, then she would break my legs. My friends’ mums also said the same to them, and we followed what they told us, and still do to this day. We make sure our dinner is finished by 9pm.”

IV – On DatingTeresa’s ideal man:

Ambitious

Degree level education

Similar family background (four flats)

Similar interests (sleep)

1.75m tall

Not ugly

“I’m short, so if we have children, he needs to be taller than me so the children aren’t too short. I used to want a boyfriend who was 1.8m tall, but my mum said I’m unnecessarily aiming too high because I’m only so short, so I compromised at 1.75m. I have only ever met one man who fits the criteria, who is currently studying in Germany, but he doesn’t like me.” She laughs.Teresa has been single her whole life, having never had anything close to a boyfriend. She says that the dating apps are just for sex, and that the best place for a Chinese girl to meet a potential boyfriend is at University. Unfortunately for Teresa, she studied English in a class of 40 girls, and only five boys, two of whom were gay, and the other three, well, as she puts it, “Ugly.”In People’s Park in Shanghai, I’ve walked past rows and rows of A4 posters securely taped to opened umbrellas (pictured, below), advertising the grandchild of the old woman or man sat behind them.SMLXL

​​ “They’re for the high quality grandchildren,” Teresa said. “Maybe they have a high quality salary and a high quality appearance, but are too busy to pursue anyone.“My mum plays Mahjong every week, and when she does, she’ll say to the other players [her impression is one of an agonising woman in despair], ‘My daughter is already 24. Do you have any good boys around you? If you have, I’ll ask my daughter to meet him’.”Teresa confesses to meeting several boys on blind dates in KFC or McDonalds, a location approved by their parents. Before they meet, she is informed of their height, salary, and number of flats to their name. The dates usually last for one hour. Her family want her to date a man with the same number of flats as her, or more. “I’ve told my mum that I don’t like them, but it doesn’t work. I’ve explained several times that I want the boy to work hard for himself and not to live off what his family gave him. I want him to be able to give me something.“I’ve met men before with salaries less than half of mine, with less of an education, but their families may have had five flats, which can be rented out for a high price tag. And that’s all that matters to my family. Older people in China think that the more money you have, the higher quality life you will lead. To some extent it’s true. You need money, then you can have a good life. But my family doesn’t pay attention to the boy himself, his personality or knowledge. Am I to raise him?“Once they introduced me to a Maths teacher, which is unusual in China because it’s the girls who always want to be teachers. We admiringly think of the free time we can have to look after the children during the summer and winter vacations, and we’ll think of being able to leave work at 4pm, to again be home to take care of the babies. If you’re a male teacher, I think you’re not ambitious. He was also very short, at 1.65m, and ugly…Wait, that’s the size of you!” After receiving measurements of potential boy after boy, it’s no surprise that she can guess my height with one glance.With an unlucky track record of dates, there’s never been a second. The first time you meet Teresa, she comes across as indifferent and unfriendly. I didn’t like her at the start. She said: “I’m not the kind of person you can meet once and know lots about me. It takes me a while to open up. I don’t want to talk too much to people I’m not familiar with. I have a lot of friends from high school because they know my temper and what makes me happy. I’m afraid to make new friends.”

V – On MarriageIN CHINA, you call your cousins your sisters and Teresa is the last one standing. “I feel a lot of pressure from my family to get married,” she said. “In China, your family should marry in order of age, but my younger sisters have all got married and now I’m the last one.”One of these younger ‘sisters,’ who has seven flats to her name, fell in love with a boy who had only one. She saw him secretly for one year because she was too afraid to tell her family. And when she finally took him home, her father was instantly angry. It took him six months to agree to them marrying.For couples in Shanghai, the wedding is paid for by their parents and, most commonly, the groom’s parents will buy the newlyweds their own house and car. In this instance, the bride’s father paid. It’s a far cry from British millennials struggling to get anywhere close to the property ladder. “The parents always have everything prepared for you,” Teresa said.Another of Teresa’s sisters, who is now 35, is getting married this summer. But it’s not the first time she’s fallen in love, and fallen in love with the wrong type of man. “At 22, she fell in love with a poor man, so her mother disagreed to their marriage,” Teresa said.“Three years later, both still single, the young man returned hoping to marry my sister, but her mother disagreed again. When my sister turned 30, the young man returned once again to her house, begging her to marry him. This time, her mother took her time to think about it, and wanted to agree. But my sister was furious. ‘Do you think no one else will want to marry me? It’s OK now but it wasn’t eight years ago.’ The boy waited in their high rise hallway all night, but the sister never went out to see him. And he never came back.” Wedding bells will soon ring for Teresa’s sister and her new boyfriend, a poor man from Harbin – China’s ice city – and her still disapproving mother. She’s not only disappointed by his wealth status, having only one flat, but Shanghainese must traditionally marry Shanghainese, and he’s an outsider. “But because of my sister’s age, she had to agree. Most of my sister’s friends already have two children,” Teresa said.“I really want to get married. If things at work annoy you, you want to be able to talk with others, and share happiness and sadness. It’s not the same when I console in my parents, they don’t understand me. If I say ‘I’m so tired bla bla bla’ they’ll say ‘When I was your age, I suffered more than you.’ I can speak with my friends, but they all have their own trouble, and sometimes don’t have the time to always listen to me. Whereas with a husband, I can say ‘Sit here, listen to me.’ Then I can talk and feel much better. And then when the man wants to talk with me, I’ll say ‘Stop. I don’t want to listen’.” She laughs.

VI – On CareerTERESA IS as confused as any other 20-something in the UK. She doesn’t know whether or how to progress in her career. She doesn’t know whether to strive for a high salary with long, unsociable hours or look for something stable. Something future-family friendly. “Because I’m so lazy, I used to tell my mum that I wanted to be a housewife, so that I can sleep until noon. But my mum told me, ‘No. A girl must always have her own job. Even if you don’t need to work, take a low paid job. You should connect with the outside world. If you’re always at home, taking care of babies, waiting for your husband to return, you won’t know what the fashion is, or the news. You’ll be detached. If you break up, you can still live by yourself. If you depend on your husband, one day, you might not be able to leave’.” Cue a powerful clap for Teresa’s mother.When I ask about Teresa’s biggest worry, I see the confusion building behind her scrunched-up eyes. “Should I work hard now and get a high position first? Or should I search for a boyfriend and have a stable family first? I don’t know whether I want a family or a promotion.”Teresa is an English teacher at a private education company. She works from 12:30pm to 9pm Wednesday to Friday, and 8:30am-6pm on Saturday and Sunday. Her salary is competitive for China. “I often think about moving to the Secondary School, with stable hours and a bit less pay,” she said. “I want to go on dates on Mondays and Tuesdays, but no one is free, and on Saturday nights, I’m too tired. I always thought a girl should live by herself, but my parents and grandparents say that a girl needs a family. I do want a family, but I’m very picky. If the boy has all of the qualities I want, I’m always too low for him.” In British terms, she thinks she’ll be punching above her weight.She compares herself to a childhood best friend whom she grew up with, but rarely sees these days. “I talk, she listens. I decide where to go, and she’ll book the tickets. We would go everywhere together and we just worked that way. Now, she has a high quality boyfriend. His family is rich, he has a high salary, and he is 1.8m tall.“The boy’s mother requested for her son’s future wife to be a primary school teacher, and requested that she be quiet. The boy’s only request was that the girl should be beautiful. My friend ticks all of these boxes. The mother would hate a girl like me. And I think that my friend is happier than me now.”There is conflict between Teresa’s potential career goals and hopes for family life. So does she think she had as good a chance as men do in China in catching her dream career. “There’s good opportunity for men and women equally in Shanghai. It’s the best place in China. My colleague who has moved to Shanghai from the west of China says it’s the city where dreams are made. Other places are not so convenient. There’s not as much choice of food or fashion, we’re more open to the Western world and, most importantly, there’s the great opportunity and access to education here, which is important for women.”

VII – Closer Than We ThinkIT’S BEAUTIFULLY warming to see parallels between Teresa’s life and mine. And the polar opposites are what makes the world so interesting. We are two girls brought up in two different continents, 5,704 miles apart, but share similar worries as young 20 somethings elsewhere.There’s the prevalent guidance from our families, the importance of independence from our mothers, the battle of work versus family life to come, and the vivid lust of wanting to be loved. Teresa may look to a judgmental onlooker to be dragging the shackles of overbearing, conservative rules from the moment she began to speak. But to her, it’s so normal that they’re invisible.I too conform to societal norms, those invisible rules drawn up by the West. It would be weird to not drink, to not have been blind drunk every few nights at University. It would be weird to have never painted my nails, and it has now become the norm to face the facts of not owning a home until I’m past 30, which all of the above leave Teresa gobsmacked. She and I are worlds apart in some respects but the fact we’re meeting in a few days for a film and dinner, regardless of our contrasting cultures of good girl vs bad girl, shows we’re all just human.